


Ready. Aim. Fire.

by jumpingjaxx13



Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: (Or is it?), Episode: s03e17 Through Imperial Eyes, Implied/Referenced Torture, Kallus I love you but you're a dick, Lyste is my baby angel, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Other, Referenced Future Death, Referenced Future Execution, awkward rescue missions, he deserved better, he tried his best, teensy little crushes aww
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-30
Packaged: 2018-09-30 15:33:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10166081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumpingjaxx13/pseuds/jumpingjaxx13
Summary: Alternative Title: Of Heroes and Traitors.There was a spy by the name of Fulcrum and, judging by the enhanced security, she was aboard this ship. With the guidance of Agent Kallus, he would be damned if he let her get away.On the other hand, perhaps rebels aren't all that bad...





	1. Hero---Traitor

**Author's Note:**

> So I know this doesn't follow the 'Through Imperial Eyes' canon EXACTLY, but you gotta give me some creative liberty here. Also Lyste deserved better and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise.

**Hero:** he·roˈhirō/

_ noun _

  1. a person who is admired or idealized for courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.



_        “a  war hero” _

* * *

 

There was nothing quite so alluring as the promise of heroism- of power and recognition and adoration- to a man who had blossomed from nothing, and the Empire had promised just that. From the most potent of pilots and warriors to the most well-respected officials, any starving leader would jump at the chance to join the ranks of the galaxy’s most powerful governance. 

 

Lieutenant Yogar Lyste was no exception to this rule. Though he stumbled along through the ranks, he suffered each trial and error with the optimism of a fresh recruit. While he was liked for the most part by his peers, it was his superiors who regarded him as odd, taking his enthusiasm as naivety and his friendliness as vulnerability. Time after time, sans the intervention of particularly lucky rebel forces, he proved himself a capable wielder of authority until he was faced with his greatest stumble yet.

 

They’d been on the same side, hadn’t they? Had he not seen the scene which unfolded only moments before the Lieutenant drew his blaster? That vicious, traitorous nexu of a woman had been dealing blows to a pair of his loyal troopers before the agape mouth of an escape ship. The seeds of doubt which Agent Kallus had sown through his mind finally took root, flowering in the split second it took him to pull his blaster from its holster.

 

_ Ready _ .

_ Aim.  _

_ Fire. _

* * *

 

“You should keep an eye on her.” 

 

Lyste paused, looking up at the agent with curiosity. He’d always admired the man, not only for his success in dealing with the rebel threat, but for his ingenuity and unwavering loyalty as well. As far as he was concerned, this gem of the Empire should be the figurehead sought after for every recruit; fierce yet controlled, unpredictable yet dutiful. The impeccable manifestation of what an imperial agent should be. 

 

“On Governor Pryce?” Lyste questioned, glancing quickly over his shoulder to glean what little of her presence was left from where she had so recently passed by in response to the agent’s nod. What suspicion could be cast upon the governor- the woman who’d strode beside the agent himself as partners time after time? Then again, perhaps it was this personal experience which conceived his doubt, for such a brilliant mind would surely identify such discrepancies in loyalty. Alongside this, she hadn’t been invited to the meeting to discuss the traitorous mole- something she would surely be interested in examining. Was this the Grand Admiral’s subtle way of casting suspicion? He was far too professional to simply forget or succumb to pettiness for spite. 

 

“...I agree,” he tacked on after a moment’s contemplation. “There has to be a reason she wasn’t there to discuss the spy with us. If both you  _ and  _ the Grand Admiral are suspicious, then there must be some base to it. Have to admit, I never liked her very much to begin with. She’s always been very rude, especially to you, Agent Kallus. Not to mention, she has that kind of vibe, you know?” 

 

The rationalizations rolled easily off of his tongue to the point he made himself believe he’d harbored these doubts from the beginning. If he’d only taken the moment to look at Kallus, he may have taken note of the flickering, knowing smirk which danced subtly across his features. On more than one occasion, Lyste had been regarded as a fool for his blind faith and enthusiasm, but he’d failed to find fault in it. This immense loyalty he harbored had brought him nothing but good developments over the course of his career, from his promotion to this level of  _ trust  _ and  _ respect  _ placed in him…

 

“Oh, I know,” Kallus replied, taking the Lieutenant’s moment of thought to sling an arm around his shoulder. He stiffened slightly, correcting every minimal flaw in his posture and eyes widening slightly at the friendly gesture. He’d never taken him to be a touchy person… The closeness made it so that he could feel his breath against his cheek, the words he whispered warm against his skin and tempting him to shudder. How unprofessional would that be, to take such enjoyment from a simple contact? Had he not been so preoccupied by his presentation and the message the agent was giving him- ‘ _ Keep an eye on her. She might try something today. Follow her a bit.’ _ \- then he would have noticed deft fingers sliding his cylinder from his breast pocket and replacing it with a flaming red counterpart. 

 

As far as the security systems were concerned, he bore the likeness of Agent Kallus and Agent Kallus falsely wielded the lieutenant’s name.

 

_ Ready. _

_ Aim. _

_ Fire. _

* * *

 

Tunnel vision was both a blessing and a curse when it came to successfully catching a spy. For the most part, he reaped the benefits of devout focus as he covertly followed the Governor’s every step- through halls and corridors and offices and individual engagements alike, eventually trailing after her alongside the Grand Admiral and Colonel Yularen as they weaved toward the detention center. In a way, he began to feel like a spy himself. A spy spying on a spy- how ironic. Had his silence not been crucial to the success of this pseudo-mission, he may have laughed at himself for such a thought, if not the pressure alone. Should she discover him and his intentions, she would certainly want to silence him… Almost reflexively, he rested his hand over his blaster, thumb brushing over the settings until it clicked into the ‘stun’ setting. All he needed to do was be faster, should the necessity arise. Preferably, he’d uncover what he needed and corner the traitor without creating a scene, but he’d learned the hard way on Lothal that one could never be too prepared.

 

Lyste nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice sounded from his comm and quickly covered it up. Soft blue eyes went wide as the Governor stopped in her tracks, heart climbing up into his throat and free hand moving tentatively to hover over the holster…

 

Lyste released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding as she continued to walk away, using both hands to cradle his comm. “The prisoner has escaped..? No kidding..” he muttered, the dryness in his mouth enough to rival that of Tatooine’s brutal deserts. The prisoner he’d captured- the supposed  _ bounty hunter _ \- was now most certainly a confirmed rebel and had slipped past the guard. Only someone with great influence could manage to slip a prisoner out of their hands without causing a commotion. Narrowing his eyes, he slipped his comm back into place and followed after the trio with a newfound determination.

 

He would capture the traitorous governor, topple the rebel infiltration, and solidify his presence in the imperial ranks as a hero of the Empire.

 

_ Ready. _

_ Aim.  _

_ Fire. _

* * *

 

When his life went to hell, he saw it unfolding right before him. What had appeared in the moment to be a pair of loyal soldiers defending themselves against the Governor’s attack turned out to be fabrication. He’d let impulse take control, a single stunning shot sending the forsaken governor to her knees. As far as he could tell, there was little else to do than secure the rebel spy and-

 

“ _ AGH!” _ Lyste cried out as a heavier body tackled him to the ground, the sharp contact between his temple and the ground the epicenter of the waves of numbness coursing over his limbs. Dampened voices uttering incomprehensible words as the floor below him dipped and swayed and  _ oh _ he was going to be  _ sick _ ..

 

The telltale sound of a sealing ship penetrated the thick muddle in his ears, bringing him back to his senses enough to experience a jump to the heart. The rebels… Governor Pryce’s diversion created the perfect opportunity for them to escape, the faux bounty hunter alongside them! Struggling with the effort required to lift his head, Lyste eyed his blaster that had been knocked from his grip, now laying only a meter or so away. He reached out, squirming forward despite the awkwardness of his position, the tips of his fingers barely touching the hilt before his world was flipped upside down all over again, images whizzing by as he was yanked to his feet. 

 

This time, the hands on his shoulders and the hold he was locked in lacked the intimate camaraderie he’d experienced earlier that same day. Rather than sharing schemes and secrets, the hot breath on his face burned and boiled with every accusation hurtled toward him. In the blur of his spinning mind, Lyste was barely able to make out the coldness behind Kallus’s eyes that offered such a startling contradiction to the venom he spat. 

 

“ _ Traitor!  _ **_You’re_ ** _ the rebel spy!” _

 

Lyste only stared, blood plummeting down to the bottomless pit in his gut and the gears in his brain slowing to a dumbfounded stop. Himself, a rebel spy? What ridiculous twist of fate was this? Had the agent not seen what occurred only moments ago; how Governor Pryce had gone head to head with a pair of loyal soldiers; how she had helped the blasted rebels escape? His lips parted in shock, forming soundless syllables before a coherent thought finally formed on his tongue. 

 

“What are you talking about? I’m not a spy; Governor Pryce is!” he protested, eyes never breaking away from that hypnotizingly cold, cold fire. For the second time that day, he felt the overwhelming need to shudder, but the context was so violently different from the nervous excitement he’d felt before. His innocence was irrefutable- not only did he lack the motive and means, but he’d been chasing the suspected spy all day! The abysmal dearth of opportunity would surely clear his name, especially once he explained himself to Kallus. Or, had this been a clever trap laid out by the agent, who was actually partnered with the Governor? No- Kallus was the manifestation of imperial success and loyalty. This was just a misunderstanding.

 

Before he could fully process what was happening, his was lifted from the floor, his arms pinched by the armor of exactly the breed of soldier he’d just fought to protect. The sensation of an endless fall melted into a sickening twist, bile threatening to crawl up his throat and choke off his pleas. There was no way… This couldn’t be…

 

“ _ Kallus!” _ he exclaimed, using the minor leverage the soldiers’ grasp provided to hoist himself up, feet kicking in vain resistance. “Kallus,  _ please _ ! Tell them I’m not the spy- it’s Governor Pryce!” His voice cracked as he struggled, his systems finally kicking back into gear as the true gravity of his situation dawned on him. 

 

He’d just been framed as a rebel spy, and the probability of him being granted permission to prove this as a falsehood were monumentally slim. And he knew  _ exactly _ how the Empire dealt with traitors- especially those who wouldn’t confess. As he was thrown haphazardly into a cell, his knees gave out, weak from terror, and sent him crumbling to the floor. He pulled his knees to his chest, eyes wide and prickling with the beginnings of his anxious grief as a tightening ache throbbed in his chest. 

 

They would interrogate him, and declare his every insistence of innocence the ramblings of a desperate traitor. They would set him against the wall, hands and ankles shackled in his shame as he stared down the barrels of countless blasters. People he knew would be there to see the procedure through- the Grand Admiral, Admiral Konstantine, Agent Kallus,  _ Governor Pryce _ \- oh, that would be agonizing to see the smug little smirk on her face as he met his undeserved fate! 

 

On command, the soldiers would raise their blasters. Lyste imagined he would close his eyes- no, he would leave them open. He would stare down his damners with the solid determination of any good imperial officer- no, he would look straight at Kallus, pleading and betrayed, like a final cry for him to believe him- to save him. 

 

“No, no, no, no, no…..” His final words, swarming in his chest and gagging his throat. “I’m not a spy. I’m not a spy…”

 

With that, he knew it was over as the blasters trained on him switched settings to kill. His fists would clench and his jaw would tighten and he would-

 

_ Ready. _

_ Aim. _

_ Fire. _

 

Alone in his cell to face his own nightmares, the disgraced Lieutenant Yogar Lyste tucked his head between his knees and sobbed.

* * *

 

**Traitor:** trai·torˈtrādər/

_ noun _

  1. a person who betrays a friend, country, principle, etc.



_       "they see me as a traitor, a sellout to the enemy" _

 


	2. Guilt---Redemption

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You asked, and you have received! I'm going to be tying a lot of stuff together throughout this story, so be on the lookout!

**Guilt:** ɡilt

_ noun _

  1. a feeling of having done wrong or failed in an obligation.



_ "he remembered with sudden guilt the letter that he had not yet read" _

* * *

 

‘ _ I can do more good here.’ _

 

That was what he had said as he dismissed what would most likely be his only chance for escape from the clutches of the Empire. In doing so, he had warped his own fate as well as that of his comrade. Everything had been set up  _ perfectly _ , the perfect blend of planning and charisma laying out the perfect trap to save his own hide at the expense of another. It’s what anyone else would have done, had they worn his shoes. Preserving oneself was natural; completely acceptable in the long run based off of how many benefits he could provide to the rebels. 

 

When he turned out the lights, however, the story changed entirely.

 

After the whole debacle, Kallus retired to his quarters and eased down onto his bed. While there was hardly any concept of night and day when one was catapulting through the dark expanse of space, there remained certain acceptable times to rest and rise. 

 

_ Acceptable _ . What a cruel, fickle word. Slipping out of his boots, he lay back on his bed and stared up at the dull ceiling.  _ Acceptable. _ What did and didn’t fit within that definition had become increasingly blurred as time went on as he was tugged between a mask of duty and his traitorous new loyalties. He’d framed the lieutenant for his own safety- no, for the safety of the rebellion- and that was supposedly acceptable, but yet…

 

“ _ Kallus! Kallus,  _ **_please_ ** _! Tell them I’m not the spy!” _

 

Gritting his teeth, Kallus cringed as the desperate, broken pleas echoed through his mind. He’d stood still, cold and cruel as he watched his companion be dragged to undeserved damnation, the way he kicked and begged forever seared into his mind. Through the eyes of his newborn rebellious side, this sacrifice was hardly benevolent, but it was  _ acceptable _ . As a purebred imperial, however, it was a hideous betrayal. As a man that had been graced with the naive, unquestioned trust of his partner, he felt disgusting. Had he always been such a manipulative bastard? If so, why did this situation alone make his stomach churn in contrast to the thousands of other atrocities he had committed..? 

 

Kallus groaned and squeezed his eyes shut, as if the blind darkness would somehow relieve him of these thoughts- these flashing images of  Lyste’s uncannily friendly smile dripping with blood; of his name on his lips as he drew his final breath; of the most potent fear and fury radiating off of him, condemning the defective agent to a hell he’d escaped at the cost of the lieutenant’s head…

 

Sweat began to bead up on his forehead as his imagination ran wild, conjuring up scenario after horrible scenario as a result of his betrayal. Lyste didn’t deserve this. Out of all of the wretches available to frame, he had to warp the events to put the focus on the only man which had been decent enough- no,  _ foolish _ enough- to be kind to him. To treat him as a human rather than a weapon. To speak with him and confide in him and personally take on his missions with only suggestions and  **_kriff_ ** the man was just too  _ nice _ to bear the beatings of being a ranking imperial officer. It was his ambition which placed him in Kallus’s path- he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and that was all! If only his dreams would fall in line with these desperate rationalizations…

 

Hazel eyes snapped open as a nearly sacred realization dawned on him. His cheeks were flushed from not only the shame and excitement, but as a result of the general warmth of his quarters as well. Whereas others maintained a stable temperature just cold enough to remind them of propriety, Kallus had a unique addition to his minimal display which made the sharp dorm feel much more like a home. 

 

Its light had yet to dim, and its warmth radiated continually without fade, much like the spirit of rebellion itself.  _ Rebels...hah… _ The Lasat which had thrust this beautiful object upon him was the root of these cumulative problems- tempting him to seek a nasty truth behind imperial doors; luring him into a warm sense of security on that moon; unwittingly convincing him to take up the mantle of Fulcrum; inadvertently forcing him to entice the untimely demise of a compatriot.  Had their misadventure on that geonosian moon never happened, then he wouldn’t be in this mess. 

 

A bitter smile tugged on his lips, dry and brimming with resignation. While living in ignorance of the Empire's atrocities would have been beyond blissful, this threat to his ingrained loyalty was the best thing that could have happened to him. Had he not encountered Garazeb Orrelios on that moon, then he doubted he’d have the decency to carry this guilt. After all, as he had learned, what was  _ acceptable _ was not always necessarily  _ good _ . 

 

Reaching up to take the sacred object in hand, he marveled at how it continued to thrive even under the oppressive darkness of its surroundings- the oppressive, traitorous darkness of Kallus himself. Lately, he’d avoided touching it in fear that his own conflicted sickness would make its beauty wilt and crumble. If anything, it seemed to glow brighter under his fingertips, cheering him on and coaxing the most righteous of ideas to the forefront of his mind. 

 

Silently thanking the object- so inanimate, but still very much alive- he replaced it gently on his shelf before falling back, closed eyes masking the whirring gears behind the lids. He knew  _ exactly _ what he needed to do.

* * *

 

Kallus hadn’t witnessed the proceedings for very many cases of high treason simply due to the fact that there weren’t many advanced traitors- at the very least, not many stupid enough to get caught. That was one persistent thought that plagued him as he walked down the halls, fishing around his own exaggerated paranoia; were there any others who wore the same mask he did, masquerading as a loyal imperial officers while a rebellious soul itched to break through? If so, how many? Could he trust them not to follow the same path he did in orchestrating a betrayal? Were there people who already knew of his fickleness and were turning a blind eye or setting up their own traps? The thoughts made him queasy. 

 

_ Three days _ . He snapped himself back to his senses with a sharp refocus. These proceedings, as far as he knew, lasted three days; one day for complete incarceration, one for unforgiving torture and interrogation by only the Empire’s hardest hands, and one for the traitor to prematurely meet their maker. At this point, Day One had already passed, the only peace Lyste would experience for (supposedly) the rest of his life trickling away as he slept, which meant…

 

Kallus blanched openly, though he quickly covered such an expression with a forced sneeze. Day Two was filled to the brim with the most agonizing torture an innocent soul could imagine. There were the basics, of course- electric shocks, physical beatings, terrorizing threats and false bargains- but if the fool was naive enough (or innocent enough, in the case of the shamed lieutenant) not to spill, the imperial forces had... _ other _ methods of attempted extraction. 

 

He’d only seen them a few times, associating their usage with stubbornness and skin thicker than bantha hide. The Bor Gullet, as it was called, was an unsightly, asymmetrical sentient glob which fed off the sanity and memories of its victims and was only used in extreme cases of suspected falsehood due to its rather…  _ unfortunate _ side effects. Once introduced to this treatment, Kallus imagined that the impending execution came as a mercy, such was the case of Agent Swain…

 

_ “Ordinary citizens were being punished for things they hadn't done. That's not an organisation I wanted to serve and protect, and I can't believe you still do." _

 

Oh, how painfully applicable her final words to him were before he damned her- not too differently from the way in which he damned Lyste. If he could, he would have run to her- grabbed her by the shoulders and  _ screamed _ that she had been right. This wasn’t the kind of place he wanted to be. He couldn’t support the abuse and slaughter of innocents. He couldn’t. Not anymore. He  _ wouldn’t _ .

 

_ “Then prove it.” _

 

Her voice echoed in his head, as if acting as a postmortem messenger. Growing up, he’d heard stories of the Force- how some could use it to perform miracles, how all assimilated into it in the end- but never really considered himself as part of it until recently. This interconnectedness with all living things had been rejected by the cruel regime guarding his mind, but now..? 

 

“I will,” he muttered to himself, lips pursed in a concentrated frown as he strode briskly down the halls. “I will. I will. I will.”

* * *

 

“Agent Kallus.” A young communications officer, likely fresh from the academy, greeted him at the entrance. He was long, lean, and appeared to hold the stars in his eyes, though his nerves at being confronted by someone of such high regard was more than obvious. Seeing much of his old self in this young man, Kallus managed a faint smile and nodded in recognition.

 

“Ensign… Marakov, yes?” There was a swell of pride that bubbled in his chest as Marakov’s posture grew taller, the broad smile and beginnings of  a pink tinge to his cheeks telling him that he’d guessed right. Kallus hadn’t noticed these little things before he became a turncoat- how innocent and excitable and overall  _ happy _ new recruits were, especially when faced with a superior. While endearing, it almost made him sad to think of how this brilliance would be tarnished by the lies of the Empire…

 

“I’m expecting a transmission from my informant in the Senate,” he explained, his carefully constructed lie rolling easily off of his tongue. It was easy to ‘prove,’ however, should he be questioned- after all, the contact he maintained was intimately involved with the Senate alongside the Rebellion. “And I need a secure line for response. No records, no possibility of tracing.”

 

That request made Ensign Marakov pause, poorly disguised hesitance flickering across his features. “You want me to connect a separate line? With all due respect, sir, I don’t understand why you need something so private that it cannot be included in Imperial Records.”

 

“My contact is incredibly secretive,” he stated, shrugging his shoulders as if it were a mere inconvenience. “He demands not to be recorded lest he stop providing the vital information the ISB needs. It’s a small price to pay for the content we receive.”

 

“Yes, sir,” Marakov replied, the explanation seeming to calm some of his nerves. Caught between textbook protocol and orders from a superior officer- there was no wonder he was distressed. Stepping inside, the boy went to work rewiring a single line for the agent. Once he was done, he stood tall and faced Kallus. “There you are, sir. One completely private line. I’ll step outside for you,” he offered, maneuvering out the door and standing guard at the door.

 

“Thank you,” he replied, offering what he hoped was a warm smile of encouragement before the door shut behind him, isolating him in a room of blinking lights and promising transmissions. 

 

_ Prove it. You’re a good man now, Kallus. It’s the best thing to do. Completely acceptable.  _

 

Having long since memorized the routing code, Kallus punched it in blindly and drew in a deep breath. Should the kid come back in or fail to guard the door or set up the private connection incorrectly…. 

 

No, it was out of his hands now. At this point, it was just a matter of time.

 

Down on another planet unknown to Kallus- unseen and untouched by Kallus- a coded transmission came through to a man far too busy for his own liking. At first, it appeared he wanted to ignore it, but his position as not only a political power, but as a center for the Rebellion’s web, he forced himself from his work to receive whatever message. The moment he read it, his heart leapt into his throat and he scurried to contact the appropriate agents; Organa- no, Mon Mothma- no, the  _ Phantom _ , no, all of them-to arrange this order by their most valuable Fulcrum. 

TRANSMISSION RECEIVED: 01011001 01001111 01010101 00100000 01010111 01000001 01001110 01010100 01000101 01000100 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01010010 01000101 01010011 01000011 01010101 01000101 00100000 01000110 01010101 01001100 01000011 01010010 01010101 01001101 00111111 00100000 01000011 01001111 01001101 01000101 00100000 01000001 01001110 01000100 00100000 01000111 01000101 01010100 00100000 01001000 01001001 01001101 00101110 00100000 01000011 01000101 01001100 01001100 00100000 00110010 00110010 00110001 01000010 00100000 01000011 01011000 01001111 01001100 01010100 00100000 01001100 01011001 01010011 01010100 01000101 

{YOU WANTED TO RESCUE FULCRUM? COME AND GET HIM. CELL 221B CXOLT LYSTE}

* * *

 

**Redemption:** re·demp·tion rəˈdem(p)SH(ə)n/

_ noun _

  1. the action of saving or being saved from sin, error, or evil.



_ "God's plans for the redemption of his world" _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the dream rescue team all set up ^^ Trust me, you'll like it.  
> Also what is a transitioning conclusion? I have no idea what I wrote there lol


	3. Fallback--Infiltration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #DreamRescueTeam   
> AKA These three have never interacted in canon so I'm BS-ing everything

**Fallback:** fall ·back \ˈfȯl-ˌbak\

_ noun  _

  1. Something on which one can fall back; a reserve



_ “He was the fallback player for the team” _

* * *

 

If only one thing had become almost obscenely clear to Wedge, it was that one couldn’t stay a rookie in the Rebellion for long. He supposed the causation was clear enough- as rebels perished by the hands of imperial forces, more were needed to take their place, regardless of training. Especially when it came to pilots such as himself- a precious rarity among recruits- there was very little time budgeted for him to grow accustomed to his new fugitive position. 

 

Age was hardly a factor. He’d watched full grown men waddle around like newborn loth cats and teens younger than himself wield themselves perfectly. In certain cases, such perfection carried a dark aura- the mark of a seasoned professional whose eyes had witnessed one blow too many. Such was the case of Cassian Andor, who’d been assigned to show Wedge the ropes of the operation during his initial integration. Before that day, he’d never met a man so young and alive and yet so  _ dead _ in every other imaginable way. 

 

It took nearly a week for Wedge to coax a smile out of him, and the poor lieutenant  nearly died on the spot. Behind all of the monotonous guardedness and spitfire temper lay a ray of sunshine, should one discover how to unlock it. He’d thought it a basic joke- one he’d heard countless times throughout the academy; cheesy and common and eternally obnoxious- and expected to be shoved or groaned at by his mentor in response. Instead, something cracked across his mask of an expression, a sound which likened the cousin of a laugh sounding from the shift.

 

“That...That was awful,” Cassian stated, his voice carrying a lighter tone with the newfound, pleasant curvature of his lips. “Honestly. Is that the sort of thing they teach you in the Imperial Academy? No wonder you defected.”

 

Recovering himself, Wedge managed a lopsided smile in return. “Yeah, well, there are some nightmares you just can’t escape from. I’m just glad you’re here to suffer with me,” he teased, receiving the aforementioned shove in response.

 

Moments like these didn’t happen often, but it certainly propelled the relationship from purely professional to something akin to friendship, even if Cassian refused to use the ‘f-word.’ While it had irked Wedge in the beginning, time and knowledge dulled the initial sting of being a ‘comrade.’

 

As far as Wedge was aware (and what Cassian managed to tell him), there were quite a few information agents who carried the codename of ‘Fulcrum,’ but only a few prominent ones active at any particular time. For example, while Cassian was considered a ‘Fulcrum,’ his missions were typically short-lived and minorly vital in nature. Previously, their most valuable agent had been a former jedi by the name of Ahsoka Tano, and now it was-

 

“No kriffing way.” Wedge felt his jaw hit the ground, his exclamation interrupting his friend’s explanation. “There is  _ no  _ **_kriffing_ ** way that  _ Agent Kallus _ is a Fulcrum. You’re pulling me.”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Cassian replied, the dry seriousness of his expression saying everything and nothing simultaneously. Wedge couldn’t help but wonder how much practice it took him to so painlessly master this impenetrable poker face. “I was only informed recently myself. He’s been a valuable asset in many ways. In fact, if I remember correctly, he was directly involved in the success of your own defection.”

 

“But…” The pilot frowned, the crease in his brow growing impossibly deeper. Come to think of it, the agent had guided them to freedom, but he’d assumed it was a mere closing of debt. 

 

_ ‘Tell Garazeb Orrelios we’re even’ _ \- That’s what he’d said, wasn’t it? He’d taken that to mean that their freedom was a means to settle an open score- something no proud officer could handle carrying for too long. Then again, the correlation between the agent’s arrival at the academy and the faux recruitment of Sabine Wren was, in hindsight, strangely convenient…

 

“Wow…” Wedge mused, forcing his jaw to lift up from the ground. “I can genuinely say that I did  _ not  _ see that coming. But, what does this have to do with the mission, again..?”

 

Cassian opened his mouth to answer, but was interrupted by the piercing sound of crashing metal and the cry of an expletive. Sighing heavily, the Fulcrum agent rubbed at his temples and gestured toward the door. 

 

“Because we’re assigned on a risky rescue mission. Someone other than me ought to know what’s happening. And we’re taking a notably unstable trainee with us.”

* * *

 

When Mart agreed to take on an extremely important rescue mission for the Rebellion, he failed to factor in that he would not only be flying in an unfamiliar ship, but with an unfamiliar crew as well. He’d been so caught up in the glory of being chosen as a member of the  _ FETT  _ (Fulcrum Extraction Trial Team (though why it was a ‘trial’ team, he didn’t know)) that this reality passed right over him until it was far too late to change his mind. 

 

“What do you mean, Iron Squadron is grounded?!” he exclaimed, fury rushing up to burn his cheeks as his fists alternated between clenching and relaxing. “ _ I’m  _ Iron Squadron’s captain, and  _ I’m _ assigned to this mission! You can’t keep me down like this!” 

 

The flight control officer rolled her eyes, biting back an exasperated groan. Out of everyone who could be taking this mission, she was devastated that it was the brat. General Sato had better compensate her for the brain cells lost while on the job… 

 

“I know that, ya sleemo,” she snapped back, brushing a few stray tentacles behind her shoulders. Sometimes, she liked to pretend that she was recruited because she was skilled and that she joined because it was the right thing to do, but confrontations reminded the nautolan exactly why she left Tatooine- the Rebellion needed a security guard who could see in the dark, and she needed to escape the endless light of Tatooine’s dual suns before she went blind altogether. Definitely not to babysit her general’s baby nephew… 

 

“You’re going on the mission. Jin and Terez aren’t. To keep it on the down low, we assigned you to some other guys that’ll make it easier for you to infiltrate. In fact…” Her gaze drifted away from the angry boy, almost crying out with relief when two other men entered the landing pad. 

 

“Mart Mattin, I’m sure you know these two; Lieutenant Antilles and Captain Andor.” Whereas Cassian nodded respectfully at his introduction, Wedge offered a smile and a wave. 

 

“Hey. You must be the third wheel, eh? Just call me Wedge.” He offered his hand, highly taken aback when it was locked in a tight, vice like grip. Either this kid had a serious grip, or he was a force to be reckoned with while angry… The moment he could pull his hand away, he shook it off, his smile fading from warm to stiff and forced.

 

“Mart,” the youngest replied, face about as sour as the tang of Corellian drink as he turned to Cassian. He crossed his arms over his chest, eyes scanning over the older agent’s poised form. “ _ Captain _ Andor, huh? Well, don’t get in my way.  _ I’m  _  the captain of this ship.”

 

A terrible, sinking pit dropped in Wedge’s stomach at Mart’s flippant treatment of their superior. He’d seen Cassian on edge on multiple occasions, and while it never came to blows, it wasn’t exactly a fun experience, either… Paling considerably, he turned to look at the Captain, fearing what reaction he’d receive…

 

“......Fine.” The captain stated, the exhaustion etched in his face clear in his resignation. From what he knew about the true nature of Cassian’s position, it was understandable that he wouldn’t bother to pick a fight as meaningless as this one. Especially not with the entitled leader of Iron Squadron. “Just don’t do anything stupid.We only have plans to rescue one person today, and that person is not you. Miss Kayek, would you mind..?” Before he could subject himself to more of Mart’s wounded pride, Cassian marched easily past him and followed the nautolan guard to the mouth of the ship, leaving Wedge to deal with the aftermath.

 

They hadn’t even boarded the ship yet, but Wedge was already starting to despise this ‘rescue’ mission…

 

Right. They hadn’t told him about that yet. Based on Cassian’s blase approach to the self-proclaimed ‘ _ Captain’s’ _ presence, the duty fell on him to explain the little crossover to Mart, whose frustration would only skyrocket. When Ezra pulled him aside and lay it down flat, Wedge knew he was flustered...

 

He’d wait on that. In fact, if he waited long enough, Mart would find out on his own in a few hours when they broke open the cell to someone who was very much  _ not _ Fulcrum…

 

Bumping his shoulder in a friendly gesture, he gestured for him to follow. “Come on then,  _ Captain _ Mattin. We’ve got a spy to smoke out.”

* * *

 

The uniform of an everyday imperial was unfamiliar in contrast to that of a TIE pilot. There was no skintight suit designed to protect him from the merciless cold of space and no protective gear, whether it be weapons on the hull of the ship or padding in the uniform. If these were the conditions the cargo pilots were always under, then there was really no question as to why they had captured so many imperial cargo ships…

 

He knew he shouldn’t be concerned for the safety of minor imperial employees now that he’d gotten hitched with the Rebellion, but he’d known plenty of people working in the field. Hopefully, those whose faces he could put to names would avoid the victimization by other rebel fighters.

 

Flattening down his regulation shirt, Wedge adjusted the insignia pinned to his chest until it was parallel to the ground, wearing it as if he were proud. According to the arrangement, his rank translated perfectly from the Alliance to the Empire- Lieutenant. He was high enough to have access to available structures while being insignificant enough to pass by unnoticed. Cassian, on the other hand…

 

“You do realize that’s the insignia for an Admiral, right?” 

 

From across the room, Cassian paused in his grooming to frown at Wedge’s comment. “What are you talking about? This is a captain’s insignia. I’ve used it countless times.”

 

Shaking his head, Wedge strode over and tapped the badge, familiarity clicking in his eyes. “Then you must’ve been around some stupid people. Take it from the guy who was in the Imperial Academy- that’s  _ definitely _ an Admiral’s insignia. See? It’s  _ way  _ too long to be a Captain. This disguise might’ve worked on some scattered planets, but we’re going into the heart of the Empire’s fleet. You won’t get past.”

 

“We’ll just see about that once we get in, won’t we?” he mused, shrugging off Wedge’s commentary as if it were nothing but aimless blabber. Truth be told, they were far too deep into this to turn around over something as silly as a faulty insignia. It had been used time after time by agent after agent without question, so the deep concern the lieutenant was experiencing didn’t penetrate Cassian’s thick skin.

 

Before protests could rise, a third voice called from the cockpit. “Hey, Wedge! We’re coming up on the fleet. I’m assuming the one the size of a small city is the one we’re docking on?”

 

Despite himself, Wedge’s stomach twisted as he rushed to the front. Sure enough, the collection of ships which lay idle held the monstrosity of the  _ Chimaera _ \- something he’d only seen holograms of previously. Imperial Star Destroyers never failed to awe onlookers; stretching over 1,600 meters from tip to tail, armed to the teeth, but radiated angular elegance nonetheless. While he knew that this particular Destroyer was hardly impressive in comparison to grander constructions, it was still leagues larger than any other he’d confronted. One couldn’t help but gape. 

 

Coming to his senses, Wedge leaned over Mart until his lips nearly touched the comm. “This is CS-1138 coming in on IC-367025 with an emergency shipment of med supplies. Requesting clearance to dock.”

 

Initially, his words were met with nothing but static, goosebumps crawling over Mart’s skin. Fighting these ships was one thing- integrating and communicating with them was another entirely. His anti-imperial instincts begged him to pull the trigger, rescue mission be damned! Biting his tongue, he reached ambiguously towards where the trigger should be only to grope t empty space. Inwardly, he cursed. 

 

“Cargo ships don’t have weapons, Captain,” a close voice whispered in his ear, making Mart’s entire body seize. A hand rested on his shoulder, a fraction of Cassian’s weight now restricting movements. A chill ran up his spine despite the scowl which was etched across his face. “Besides, Fulcrum is aboard that ship. We wouldn’t want to compromise him in the crossfire.”

 

Gritting his teeth, he jerked his shoulder out of Cassian’s grip and growled through tight lips. “Who is this  _ Fulcrum _ guy, anyways? You guys haven’t told me anything!” 

 

“It’s need to know,” the true captain hissed in response, maintaining an almost inaudible tone so as not to be picked up by the comm. “And, since you’re staying on the ship, you don’t need to know.”

 

Mart jumped, blatantly scandalized. “I’m  _ wha _ -”

 

“-Imperial Cargo 367025, your shipment is approximately three standard days late. What’s the meaning behind this tardiness?”

 

Cassian, having quickly clamped a hand over his ‘ _ superior’s’ _ mouth once the telltale hitch in static announced a reconnection of the line, looked over at Wedge and nodded. After all of the time they’d spent working alongside each other as comrades domestically, that little gesture was all that was necessary.

 

Wedge forced a nervous laugh, taking his act as far as rubbing the back of his neck despite nobody being able to see it. “Aha… Well, you see, sir, we had a run in with some rebels on our usual route, so we were forced to take a detour. We got here as fast as we could, sir.”

 

“......Very well. Imperial Cargo 367025, you have clearance for landing 7A. Once settled, prepare for boarding and inspection.”

 

As Mart wrenched his face from Cassian’s hand and retook the controls, Wedge offered a bright smile. “Looks like we’re in.”

 

Cassian hummed, folding his hands behind his back- the manifestation of Imperial professionalism. His face was a mask, an emotionless, thin expression plastered on. “Yes. Let’s just hope we’ll be able to get out.”

* * *

 

**Infiltration:** in·fil·tra·tionˌinfilˈtrāSHən/

_ noun _

  1. the action of entering or gaining access to an organization or place surreptitiously, especially in order to acquire secret information or cause damage.



_ "the army fenced parts of the border in an effort to stop militant infiltration" _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the next chapter, should I focus on Cassian, MArt, and Wedge doing their thing, or should I pan over to Lyste and do it from his perspective? Thoughts?


	4. Torture--Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As requested, we're jumping back to Lyste's perspective as our unlikely band of heroes jumps in to complete Fulcrum's mission~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for mentions/light descriptions of torture

**Torture:** tor·tureˈtôrCHər/

_ noun _

  1. the action or practice of inflicting severe pain on someone as a punishment or to force them to do or say something, or for the pleasure of the person inflicting the pain.



“ _ Acts of torture” _

* * *

 

_ Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. _

It was such a unique sensation to have his entire body throb in synchronization with the beating of his heart- agonizing, yes, but fascinating from a more apathetic perspective. The world around him grew muffled under the incessant pounding in his head, exacerbated by the harsh toss into the cell. His head cracked against the floor, reintroducing him to the motionless dizziness as the ceiling spun above him and draining him of his will to climb to the high ground of the makeshift cot. Even if he could have moved, he wouldn’t have wanted to at the risk of subjecting himself to another round of exquisite agony; instead, he groaned weakly, dry eyes falling shut as an even drier sob wracked his body, shooting tendrils of pain over his chest. 

 

Lyste knew very well how these interrogations went, despite never having conducted one himself- no, this was the  _ dirty work _ left to those lacking humanity and soul; sadists by birthright. He gave the orders, but he never once pulled the trigger. How many times had he watched some wretch be dragged away, heard their pleas and still not felt one ounce of regret? But they- they had been different, hadn’t they? They had been traitors and thieves and scum of the lowest caliber- they deserved nothing less. Lyste wasn’t like them. He wasn’t a traitor, no matter how many times they barked it at him. He wasn’t a traitor… He wasn’t a traitor….

 

_ But what if I am? _

 

Despite his lack of association with Fulcrum, there were certain events whose implications were indisputable. Unacceptable. When he’d stunned the spy- no, when he’d stunned the  _ governor _ , he’d allowed the rebel infiltrators to escape. That much couldn’t be denied. Time and time again, the very rebel cell which had damned them over and over again had slipped through his fingers, the shame of losing Alderaan’s ships and the humiliation of losing his own despite the extra security… 

 

Hells, maybe he deserved this. Officers had been demoted for lesser failures, and he was hardly important enough to deal out a second chance to. Could one classify incompetence to such a degree as treason? 

 

“N-Noooo….” Lyste moaned, the sound low, pathetic, and rattling. His voice suffered in the aftermath of ‘ _ interrogation _ ,’ the screams which tore from him having scathed his throat mercilessly. While it was undignified for him to display weakness in such a way, dignity could only survive so long in that situation.

 

The first time they’d dragged him from his cell, he’d had a full, sleepless night to construct a guarded wall. There was nothing to hide. Refusing to panic would highlight his genuineness and innocence, would it not? If he kept himself steady between blow after blow, they would listen to reason, would they not? And reason… Reason would lead to his release, would it not? He would be compensated somehow- a promotion, perhaps, for his cooperation in capturing the true Fulcrum? An apology? Recognition? Regardless, he’d taste freedom once again.

 

Within minutes, it became very clear that the interrogators weren’t interested in listening to reason- rather, they seemed to glean some form of sadistic pleasure from his feeble attempts to assert himself. Denial resulted in a blow to the gut, an empty stomach retching and heaving in the aftermath. Bargaining beckoned brutal fingers to pry his jaw open, their marking left as deep bruises along his mandible. And pleading- oh, pleading was their favorite, based upon the way they laughed. Insult and injury- the dynamic duo of despair sent white-hot tendrils of pain arcing over his body doubled with mockery. 

 

When they induced the electric inundation, Lyste experienced the most agonizing sensation in his life. His back arched up off of the table he was strapped to, jaw hanging open in a silent cry as bewildered muscles spasmed in an attempt to  _ get away _ , tears beading up in his eyes as a testament to his painful vulnerability. 

 

“ _ Bit of a shock, isn’t it?” _ one of the interrogators sneered, finally relieving Lyste of the current. His body twitched in the aftermath, a disgusting, tingling numbness enveloping his every nerve. “ _ Come on now,  _ **_Lieutenant_ ** _. You’re a smart man. The sooner you confess, the sooner this’ll all be over. Unless you’re enjoying this..” _

 

Shuddering breaths filled the following silence as Lyste tried to form words. Even the tip of his tongue tasted of static… “ _ You… You sick little… I told you, I’m not Fulcru- agh!” _

 

Had his wrists not been bound, he would have doubled over as a sharp knee pounded into the soft flesh of his stomach. In this way, he supposed he was fortunate that he hadn’t received any food previously. Looking up through tear-dotted eyes, his heart lurched.

 

_ “Idiot. Haven’t you figured out the rules of this game yet? No wonder you got caught.” _ Another rejection was trailed by another strike, his organs protesting and ribs sobbing. At this point, Lyste resigned himself to the role of an insubordinate plaything. When his cries faded to whimpers and the muscles in his neck failed to hold up his head, letting it loll about, his tormentor lost interest in their ‘ _ game _ ’ and dismissed him confessionless. Dignity was out the window, but at least he managed to somehow keep ahold of integrity. 

 

_ A whole lot of good  _ **_integrity_ ** _ is going to do you, now…  _

 

“-enant Pseudo here to relocate the prisoner. Have orders from the Grand Admiral himself to bring him to sector TX305 as soon as possible.”

 

An icy envelope covered the lining of his stomach at the sound of an unfamiliar voice outside the cell. This… This couldn’t be! They couldn’t drag him off to another session of heavy questioning only minutes after dumping him to wallow in the aftermath of the previous. As his racing heart climbed up his throat, Lyste strained beyond his pain to prop himself up onto his elbows. If he could reach the cot, there was a possibility he could struggle to his feet and…

 

The cell door opened, startle robbing Lyste of any ground he’d made and sent him crashing back onto the ground. He cursed softly, flecks of iron following his words as he looked up at  _ Lieutenant Pseudo _ . 

 

Two men stood in the entryway, one sporting an uncanny smile, the other grim and expressionless. One lieutenant, one admiral. The knots in his stomach tightened into a wave of severe nausea, aching muscles going stiff and air caught in his lungs. If someone with as high a rank as  _ admiral _ had come to escort him somewhere, that must mean…

 

“Yogar Lyste, am I right?” The smiling lieutenant asked, standing at parade rest as he regarded the collapsed prisoner. “Can you stand up for me?”

 

Lyste blinked. Stand… up? Had he not all but lost the will to fight, he would have tried some snappy comment about his physical state, but he instead resigned himself to soundlessly mouthing aimless syllables. 

 

“He cannot stand, Lieutenant Pseudo,” a gruff voice interrupted, his imperial accent articulating the words in such a natural fashion that it seemed forced. Obviously, this admiral was no purebred imperial… Despite himself, Lyste silently thanked the man. “Pick him up.”

 

With a shrug of his shoulders, the lieutenant strode closer and dropped to his knees, placing his hands just below Lyste’s arms. There was something almost kind in those deep, brown eyes- something Lyste wished he could have taken ahold of and kept for himself. “Sorry about this. It’s gonna hurt…”

 

That statement acting as his only warning, Lyste cried out in a shock of agony as Pseudo shoved his hands under his arms and yanked him to his feet. The world around him spun, the amalgamation of dizzying pain and sudden disorientation leaving him vulnerable to the whims of his handler. One arm was slung around Pseudo’s shoulders, who wrapped his own arm around the prisoner’s waist in return. The angle made Lyste’s shoulder burn and the weight of his own body on his legs nearly made his knees give out, but he was, for all intents and purposes, standing up.

 

“Alright now, easy does it…” Pseudo muttered, barely audible in the few inches between them. “One foot in front of the other… There we go…” Beyond the thickness of pain, he couldn’t help but wonder why he was being so kind to him. Must be new…

 

Slowly but surely, they made it out the door and past the guard. The admiral retrieved his cylinder and followed, quickly striding in front of the pair and taking the lead. Unable to muster the strength to lift his head, swollen blue eyes stared down at the ground as he was forced to stumble down the corridor.

 

He was going to die. 

 

This smiling Lieutenant Pseudo, who had handled him so gently, and his stern superior were leading him to his premature demise. His  _ undeserved _ demise. Though he lacked the energy to struggle with the might he felt in his heart, he struggled to lift his head and began to drag his feet, placing the entirety of his weight on the younger lieutenant. 

 

“Please… You have to listen to me… I’m not… I’m not Fulcrum!” he insisted, but the resignation in his voice signified that he hardly expected to be heard, much less believed. One could only imagine his surprise when a snap of the admiral’s fingers accented the end of his statement, prompting Pseudo to pull him into a side corridor.

 

He propped Lyste up against the wall, and it took him his all not to give in to weak knees. “Yeah, we know,” Pseudo said, shrugging his shoulders. “You look nothing like him.”

 

Lyste stared, jaw hanging open from a mixture of awe and the ache of keeping it shut.  _ Nothing like him… _ ? Instinctually, he groped for his blaster, only to be reminded of just how defenseless and vulnerable he was. If he’d felt the icy grip of fear before, then it virtually consumed him in that moment.

 

“Rebels… You’re  _ rebels..! _ ” he exclaimed, the rasp of his voice prohibiting him from speaking too loudly. Pressing his palms against the wall and his knees knocking together, he scanned over the infiltrators with the utmost alarm. Had they come to kill him..? Ransom would be no good, so their motives mustn’t be monetary… Did they consider him an imposter? Did they harbor the idea that his loss would be some great blow to the Empire?  Despite how much it pained him to admit his uselessness, they surely must know of it themselves..?

 

Lieutenant Pseudo put his hands in the air, dark eyes growing wide and the smile falling from his face. “Hey, hey! No need to tell the galaxy. You gotta be quiet if you want to get out of here alive, Lieutenant Lyste.”

 

“Out… alive..?” 

 

The admiral stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest as he regarded the man against the wall. “We were sent by the Fulcrum agent of this sector to extract you.” The voice dropped its unnervingly perfect imperial accent and adopted a thick Festian one instead. “So, I suggest you keep quiet and follow suit.”

 

Lyste blinked, flabbergast cemented over his face as he stared at the two officers- no, the two  _ rebels _ . This.. this  _ Fulcrum _ was not only one of many, but had gone out of his way to commission a rescue… for  _ him _ ? Braving the ache to grit his teeth, he shook his head and pressed further into the wall. “I… If you think I’m going to let you take me… I’m not a rebel! You’re traitors to the Empire- I’m  _ not _ ! I could  _ never _ -”

 

“Then you will die.” The admiral pursed his lips,  letting his arms drop to his sides. “Whether you come with us or not, you will die. The Empire will kill you in a day’s time if you stay, but you may last years if you leave. Self-preservation is not treachery, Lieutenant; it’s natural.”

 

Self-preservation was not treachery..? Such a rebellious thought. When one devoted his life to serving the Empire, nothing else mattered, did it..? Nevertheless, the human drive for survival easily overpowered the rationalizations of devotion, making his heart vacillate between escape and facing his damnation.

 

….But this  _ wasn’t  _ **_his_ ** damnation. Despite his occasional shortcomings, this punishment was dealt out without necessity. If he could escape this proverbial noose long enough to prove his innocence, he could simply come back, right? Hells, if he followed the rebels and gleaned information from them, he’d be honored as a hero- a martyr to the imperial cause!

 

Hesitating slightly, he clenched his fists and ran a dry tongue over drier lips. “You… You really want to help me? You’re really going to get me out of here..?”

 

Pseudo nodded, offering his hand again. “That was the plan,  _ ‘Fulcrum,’ _ ” he teased. 

 

Lyste drew in a deep, shuddering breath, feeling his lungs ache from the effort. “....Alright. I’ll go. But I won’t be happy about it, and I’m not staying!”

 

The two faux officers exchanged knowing looks (most likely communicating about his inability to stumble more than a few meters alone), and the admiral nodded. “Good. Antilles, make sure to keep up. I’m not slowing down for you.” 

 

With that, the admiral turned on his heel and marched off, posture held stiff and hand beckoning them forward. Sighing heavily, Pseudo- no,  _ Antilles _ \- approached him again, holding out his arms. “He’s not joking,” he confessed, placing his hands under Lyste’s sore arms and manhandling him into position. “Let’s get going,  _ Fulcrum _ .”

* * *

 

As they marched through the corridors, nobody questioned them. Why would they? These troopers had no right or reason to interrogate an admiral- especially not quite one quite so outwardly harsh. The ersatz admiral, he soon learned, went by the name of Captain Cassian Andor- a name he’d heard a handful of times before during security briefs. Come to think of it, the name  _ Antilles _ rang a similar bell…

 

Comforting himself with the notion that he’d right his wrongs once his fate rested in his own hands once again, he trudged along, watching the shoes of former compatriots should one pass by. The cells were, understandably, a great deal away from the bay, and Lyste felt his wobbling knees kiss the edge of giving out.  _ Just a little further _ …

 

“There have been no orders to relocate  CXOLT LYSTE from the current arrangement. The communications droids have been sent to diagnostics. Please return the prisoner to his cell.” A robotic, tinny voice interrupted their journey, and Lyste didn’t need to look up to know exactly what it was. 

 

Imperial security droids were one of the most prized creations of their engineers. These bulky droids possessed the strength of twenty men and the intellect of hundreds, making them invaluable to the smooth function of security and tactical systems. Of course, this meant that there was no lying to such a droid while still avoiding a blow… Lyste cringed, mentally cursing himself for going along with this  _ idiotic  _ plan to begin with…

 

Cassian stepped forward, standing as proud and tall as one would expect from an imperial admiral. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. I have received orders from the Grand Admiral himself- word of mouth. This transfer won’t be in your database.”

 

The droid went silent for a moment, the scene uncannily resembling a pair of reeks fighting for dominance. If the two began to butt heads, Lyste wouldn’t be the least surprised. “Your face is not in my database either, it seems.”

 

Whereas anyone else would have panicked and crumpled into a corner, Cassian simply frowned. “Preposterous. I am Captain Falso, the new transfer from Coruscant.”

 

“.........” The droid fell silent once again, and Lyste could virtually hear his circuits whirring. If, by some miracle, they’d encountered a diagnostically deficient droid…..

 

“.....Is this a test, sir?” it finally questioned, breaking the silence. “If it is, I highly suggest formulating another. There’s a 99.99% chance of success regardless of diagnostic sufficiently,  _ Admiral _ Falso.”

 

Right beside his ear, he heard Antilles snicker. Not to be blatantly perturbed, Cassian recovered from his surprise quickly and nodded, folding his hands behind his back and rest then against the small of his spine- a position far too respectful to regard a droid. “Good, good. Now, if you don’t mind…”

 

His attempt to sidestep the droid was met with a metallic arm blocking his way. Frowning, Cassian tapped his foot impatiently. “Droid! What do you think you’re doing? I have orders to relocate this prisoner at once!”

 

“You didn’t let me finish.” Had Lyste not known any better, he would have sworn that the droid glared at them. “There is no Admiral Falso in my database. There is no ‘Falso’ in my database at all. I can say, however, that  _ Falso _ means ‘false’ in the festian dialect.”

 

Though neither of the rebels displayed any outward signs of fear, Antilles’s arm tightened around his waist. The message was clear: at a moment’s notice, they would need to run. Such a thought made him dizzy. 

 

“...Report to diagnostics, droid. Now.” Cassian’s voice was tense, leaving no room for debate. Any well-programmed droid would have recognized the order and left, if only to spite their master. Unfortunately, they just couldn’t be as lucky as to find a proper droid…

 

“I can run my own diagnostics,” the droid replied, keeping his arm strongly in place. “But I can deduce yours. You’re not in the imperial database and the prisoner is a suspected spy. You are rebels.” Slowly, the droid let his arm drop back to his side without breaking his verbal flow. “I assume you are heading for the landing. You won’t get anywhere  _ that  _ way. Let me escort you back to your ship another way. It’ll be much more efficient.”

 

To say the very least, the three escapees were completely, undeniably, and utterly dumbfounded. These droids, however intelligent they were designed to be, had never been known to develop enough personality to rebel. The thought made Lyste’s stomach twist. If even  _ droids _ were rebelling now…

 

No, this was no rebel droid. This was a droid whose circuits had been damaged- whose diagnostics were out of date- whose initial programming had been flawed. If the sear that passed over his shoulder suggested anything, it was an electrical malfunction. This poor droid needed to see a mech sooner rather than later…

 

“...Why the fragging  _ hells _ would we take you with us?” Cassian snapped, losing his faux accent as easily as he’d slipped it on. Judging by the way he faltered, this was a highly unexpected turn of events- he hadn’t budgeted for a rogue, malfunctioning droid in his original plan.

 

For his part, the droid handled the outburst relatively well. “I see no reason why not. I’m an imperial droid- nobody would question my presence. I could get you out with no problems, and I can provide valuable information regarding the Empire’s strategies. Based upon the functionality of my programming, there is only a 13.97% chance of my turning on you.”

 

“The functionality of your programming..?” Cassian shook his head. “This is ridiculous… If you want to help us, get out of our way. It’s no good keeping us here.”

 

“He needs medical attention,” Wedge chimed in, prompting Lyste to cringe. 

 

“It’s not  _ that  _ ba-Ah!” Lyste cried out as Wedge applied pressure to his ribs, sending a shock of hot pain up his torso. At the resulting smirk, he simply muttered curses under his breath. Maybe it  _ was _ that bad…

 

“I can see this,” the droid replied. If Lyste hadn’t known any better, he would have thought the droid- the series programmed to  _ not _ develop personalities- was… annoyed. “Which only makes it more important that I act as your guide. I can get you there quickly and safely. On the other hand, I could raise an alarm. That would make your journey much more difficult.”

 

Frustration bubbled up in his gut, whisking him from numbness to agony in an awful pattern. Gritting his teeth, Lyste tightened his grip on Wedge’s shoulder to better hold himself up, doing his best to ignore the burning ache of his muscles. “Just take the blasted droid!” he insisted, inwardly wincing at how raspy his voice sounded. “You’re kidnapping one imperial. What’ll one more hurt?”

 

“This is  _ not  _  a kidnapping! It’s a rescue!”

 

“My point still stands!” Or,  leans, really, as he shifts more of his weight onto the younger man’s shoulders. “We don’t have time to waste. Just take the blasted droid with us. Worst situation, we wipe its memory and send it to the crusher.”

 

Despite being unable to alter his facial expression, the droid appeared undeniably offended. “I am not a  _ blasted droid _ . I am K-2S0 and, considering your position,  CXOLT LYSTE, I would be a bit more respectf-”

 

“Alright, alright!” Cassian interrupted, the faint redness in his cheeks accenting his frustration. This must not have been going as planned at all, sparking a touch of pity from the fallen lieutenant. After all, the entire reason he was in this situation to begin with was due to a plan gone abysmally wrong..

 

“If that’s what we’re doing, then let’s get on with it. You said you could take us to our ship? Fine. Lead the way.” With a wave of his hand and a short quip of spitfire banter between the droid and the captain, the party headed off toward the ships. Despite himself, Lyste couldn’t help but hope someone noticed- that  _ someone _ was competent enough to recognize the  _ ridiculousness _ of this entire scheme, and that the Empire wasn’t nearly as lax as it appeared to be from the inside. Yet, when he was dragged through the mouth of the ship, the prospect of freedom, however temporary, nearly made him lose consciousness, stomach knotting obscenely as they took off from from the ship without hassle. 

 

_ Well, damn… _

* * *

 

Grand Admiral Thrawn leaned over his desk, propping himself up with his hand as he studied the projection carefully before a telltale crackle signaled an incoming message. His fingers glided gracefully over the holoprojector to meet the rather stricken face of a younger officer. Even by only looking at his translucent blue form, Thrawn could taste the nervous sweat.

 

“Grand Admiral, sir! Fulcrum has escaped! A full search is in effect, but there is reason to believe he may have already left the ship. There’s no telling how long he’s been gone.”

 

_ Ah… _ So, Kallus had set this up, had he? While he understood the humanity of souls, it also acted as a brilliant tactic. With the investigators so preoccupied with Lieutenant Lyste, Kallus pointed the blame further and further from himself.  _ Ingenious. I should have predicted this _ …

 

“Call off the search,” he stated, gaze drifting back to his translucent planetarium in thought. “He’s no longer with us, as it seems. The breach must have occurred hours ago. We must focus all of our efforts on securing his location without the intent to recapture. And I want this done immediately.”

 

With an unquestioning salute, the officer broke the connection, leaving Thrawn to ponder his star systems once again. A man like Lyste wouldn’t survive in an environment as unforgiving as the Rebellion. Once he found a way, he would come running back. Thrawn smirked.

 

Fulcrum or not, it appeared that Lieutenant Lyste was going to prove unimaginably invaluable. In showing his regret, Kallus had damned himself and his Rebellion. 

 

What fun, these games of war were.

* * *

 

**Escape** : es·cape əˈskāp/   
_ Verb _

break free from confinement or control.  
" _two burglars have just escaped from prison"_

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for continuing to read this monster lol


End file.
